Lesson 14: Trucks Twinkle, Too

In February 2002, my lifelong dream came true. I got a car. Sleek and silver. A 2002 Mazda Protege. With a sunroof. In January 2004, Nathan's lifelong dream came true. He got a truck. Teal and tough. A 1997 Ford 150 Lariet edition quad cab. With a cap. In the very moment of dream realization for Nathan, my nightmare began. I didn't get the big whoop about trucks. They guzzle gas. They make parking nearly impossible. They make your trip anywhere at least five minutes longer. But, oh, how my views have changed.

Nathan began his clinicals for chiropractic school that spring; the clinic was located about twenty-five minutes away, across the river from us in Rock Island, Illinois. I worked as the Graduate Assistant of Student Activities at the university I attended. My trek to work was a mere twelve minutes, half of Nathan's. With gas prices soaring, we decided it made sense to switch. He'd start driving my little Protege and I'd start driving his big truck. Gross.

Let's rewind to my first experience driving the truck, aka the Big Rig. A bunch of our friends were getting together for dinner at a Japanese restaurant for sushi and a birthday celebration. I personally would not celebrate my birthday with raw fish, but that's not the point. It was the first snow of that season and Nathan's first time drinking saki. Turns out he likes saki just as much as he loves snow. And let me tell you, he REALLY loves snow. I don't like snow or saki. About seven saki bombs later, Nathan presented as incapable of driving the Big Rig. By default, that left me. Snow. Darkness. A drunk kid next to me singing songs at the top of his lungs. Obviously, we made it home safe and sound. As I plopped on our warm, comfy, SAFE couch, I thought, "Thank goodness I will never have to drive that thing again." The joke was on me.

In March 2005, we made the switch official. The truck more or less became mine. The car more or less became his. He didn't mind driving the weenie car. On the other hand, I minded driving the truck. Until one day at Wendy's. As I pulled up to the pick up window to pay for and get my food, the young worker, a boy about age sixteen, gave the Big Rig the old up and down like he was looking at a hot babe. Then he looked at me, the actual hot babe, and said, "That's a nice truck you have." My ego bloated a bit. I drove home thinking, maybe it was a nice truck I had.

Within the next few months, parking got easier, lane changes got smoother, and the country tunes got louder. It was within those weeks I learned about the Truck Nod. It must be some kind of unspoken code that if you are driving a nice truck and pass another person driving a nice truck, you give a no-nonsense, curt "we both know we have nice trucks" nod. At first, I stayed on the receiving and replicating end of the Truck Nod. Now, I nod to every nice truck I see before they even get the chance. In addition to Truck Nods, I also get a bit of "what the?" double takes. Usually from men who could be cute under their scruff. Sometimes I wonder how ridiculous this city-girl most look in a nice truck, decked out in her nice Ann Taylor threads, nice Nine West shoes, and nice Vera Bradley bag; then I realize...I look damn good! There is absolutely something to be said about driving a truck. It makes me feel powerful, unbeatable, proud even.

Every day, I pull into the parking lot at work. Sure, I have to park kind of far away and in the clear so I don't ding someone while backing out. A few extra steps of walking never hurt anyone. And yes, it takes me fifteen minutes instead of twelve to get to work. A few extra minutes of the Today show on the AM radio never hurt anyone either. The Big Rig is great for grocery shopping, great for camping, and great for long road trips. And I've started to notice that as I drive down Locust Street in Davenport, on a pristine, radiant, and happy Iowa day, if the sun meets the hood of the Big Rig at just the right angle, it twinkles.